By Elaine Furst

It’s one of the hottest French restaurants in New York City–even though it’s been open since 1997 and, in NYC time, that’s an eternity. It’s Balthazar. Tonight, Robert and I were trying it out for the first time (hey, I never said we were cool and trendy), and we were looking forward to a nice, romantic dinner. But as you will see, it was not meant to be…

Located in NYC’s trendy “who the fuck do you think YOU are?” SoHo district, Balthazar is a French bistro created for people who have never been to Paris, wouldn’t know a good French dish if it landed on their plate, and are bulimic/anorexic and just don’t eat food anyway. Their menu offers a rather extensive array of overpriced “French-like” food at bad Euro exchange rate prices.

But before we get to the menu, however, let’s first discuss the waiting time. To those who have never been to NYC, waiting for a table at a fancy NYC restaurant is like a fine balancing act–you wanna get there early enough to get a table but yet not TOO early to miss any of the action. At Balthazar, it’s no different.

Robert and I arrived at Balthazar at 7:00 on the dot and found the usual “outside crowd before you can even get inside” crowd. Somehow, though, we wormed our way through this sea of NYC “coolness” to the maitre d’, who greeted us with the usual air of utmost contempt. When Robert dared to ask the “how long before we can get a table” question, the maitre d’, dressed in his Giorgio Armani finest (which probably cost more than my WHOLE wardrobe put together), looked us up and down, addressed his reservation book, sniffed rather contemptuously, then responded almost as a dare: “The wait will be about 2½ hours.” After we picked our jaws up from the floor, Robert and I looked at each other, swallowed our pride, smiled, gave him our name, and said we’d wait at the bar. The maitre d’, who seemed to be in total disbelief that such two tres un-chic people as us would actually DARE to stay, nodded, smiled scornfully, and watched as Robert and I did our best “uh huh, yeah, we’re at Balthazar and we’re cool” walk to the bar.

The Bar

I have to admit that what Balthazar lacks in employee warmth, they make up for in ambiance. The décor is all antique mirrors, big red booths, and white paper tablecloths. The bar is huge, yet this being Saturday night, it’s totally packed, and in order to even get close enough to the bartender, one has to maneuver their way through the sea of designer black (the official SoHo wardrobe color, don’t cha know!).

Finally, though, after making like a quarterback carrying the football in the last quarter of the Super Bowl, Robert managed to wend me through the crowd to an inch of space by the bar. Ah, Nirvana at last! Yeah, right. After about ten minutes of making like a trader on the floor of the stock exchange four minutes before closing, we finally got the bartender’s attention. We ordered two dirty martinis, and after getting poked, prodded and stepped on by some of NYC’s coolest, we finally got our drinks. Carefully, we then maneuvered our twenty-dollar drinks to the only empty space we could find: a small corner the size of a thimble where we were tucked between two tourists from South Carolina and a transgender couple from Brooklyn.

After awhile, though, the drink and the ambience started to work its magic, and I almost felt like I was back in Paris. That feeling soon went away, however, after I realized that the chick screaming at her friend from across the bar was not “un tres chic mademoiselle” from Paris but rather a bleached blonde from Long Island. But I digress.

Eventually, though, three drinks turned to four and soon the romantic ambience that was Balthazar started looking more like Paris-land at Epcot Center. FINALLY, though, at 10:00, a mere three hours after we arrived, the maitre d’ approached and told us our table was ready. Starving, stinking drunk, and exhausted, we followed the waiter as we stumbled our way to the table.

The Meal

The table we were seated at was in the middle of a row of six other tables full of loud, obnoxious “wanna-bes,” “used to bes” and “never quite weres” on either side of us (so much for the romantic dinner). After about twenty minutes, our waiter (who was prettier, skinnier and more PMS’d than I am) arrived with our menus. After examining the menu, which was full of words beginning with “le this” and “les that” at prices equivalent to a ride on Le Concorde, we decided on a steak dish for Robert and chicken for me. After we ordered and after a wait of fifteen minutes, the waiter brought us bread, which we think was French. Now, for those who haven’t had it, French bread tends to be kind of hard and crusty. Well, at Balthazar it was kind of hard to tell if the bread was French or good ol’ American stale.

After about a half-hour wait (which was not totally boring as the “used to bes” on the right of us were entertaining us with their respective cell phone conversations), our meal arrived and, I must admit, it did smell pretty good. But that’s where the positive news ends. Robert’s steak, which he ordered as medium-well, arrived too under cooked (as in blood red). After scoping out our waiter for about ten minutes, he finally came to our table and positively snarled at us when we asked him to take back the steak. After about twenty minutes, though, he returned, charbroiled steak in hand. Now weary with hunger, we proceeded to choke down our meals–Robert with his now over-done steak, and me with my now cold and (to my horror!) extremely salty chicken a la crème. We laughed and joked, however, that dessert HAS to be better. And so we ordered our favorite desserts: profiteroles and cappuccino.

Now, if done correctly, profiteroles should have a soft pastry shell with vanilla ice cream and drizzled with warm chocolate sauce. And cappuccino, of course, should have a nice frothy foam. YUM! At Balthazar, though, this was not the case. The profiterole pastry was hard as a rock, the chocolate sauce was cold, and our cappuccino had no foam!! Sacre bleu!!!

That’s when we realized this night in Parisian hell must now come to an end. We asked for our check, paid our five hundred-dollar bill, hissed at the maitre d’, caught a taxi, and made our way home…

So, mon amis, you may be wondering if we would ever return to Balthazar and give it another chance. I’m afraid the answer is a sincere “non,” as Robert and I decided we best prefer a certain restaurant, where you can always get a meal exactly the way you want it, no hassles and there’s even one in Paris. It’s called Le McDonalds. Au revoir…

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